Chapter 20
Aurelia had not intended to enter the circulating library. She had meant only to walk a little, to clear the feeling of Lord Langley’s voice from her mind and the memory of his smile from her skin.
Yet London offered very little quiet to those who required it, and after ten minutes of passing carriages, brisk servants, and ladies who seemed to look at her with more curiosity than knowledge, she found herself pausing before the bow window of Mr. Bronson’s Library and Bookseller.
There were books displayed there in tidy ranks: sermons, travel journals, poetry, a newly published novel whose heroine appeared to be in distress upon a cliff, and several newspapers folded in a neat pile upon the lower shelf.
Aurelia looked at the newspapers longer than she ought. Then, annoyed with herself for hesitating in the street like a guilty person, she went inside.
A small bell sounded above the door. The shop smelled of paper, dust, leather, and rain that had not yet fallen.
It was not empty, but it was quiet enough that voices did not have to compete with one another.
A gentleman at the counter was arguing mildly over the price of a volume of sermons.
Two young ladies stood together over a table of novels, whispering with the solemnity of conspirators.
Aurelia moved toward the shelves at the back, where older periodicals and bound volumes were kept in less fashionable disorder. She did not know precisely what she sought, some printed mention of the old scandal, or some fragment that had survived because no one had thought it worth destroying.
Her gloved fingers moved along the spines.
Annual Register. Parliamentary Debates. The Gentleman’s Magazine.
She drew one volume partway from the shelf, only for another hand to reach the same book at almost the same moment.
Aurelia started and looked up, only to find Owen standing beside her. For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then he withdrew his hand at once and bowed. “Miss Finch.”
Her surprise must have shown, for his expression softened slightly.
“My lord.”
“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to alarm you.”
“You did not alarm me,” she replied, which was not entirely true. “I was only not expecting to find anyone here.”
“In a library?”
“Yes, and also, in this part of it.”
His gaze moved briefly over the shelves, then returned to her face. “Then I must confess myself equally guilty of trespass. I had thought this one of the safer corners of London.”
“Safer from what?”
“Acquaintance.”
Despite herself, Aurelia almost smiled. “Then I am sorry to have spoiled your refuge.”
“You have not spoiled it.”
The answer came too simply. It unsettled her more than a compliment would have done.
Aurelia looked away first and pushed the book back into place. She was aware, suddenly and inconveniently, of how narrow the aisle was, and of the hush that seemed to gather between shelves more closely than in a ballroom.
“Do you come here often?” she asked, because silence had become more dangerous than speech.
“Lately, yes. It is useful when one wishes to appear occupied without being socially useful.”
“That is a very particular skill.”
“I am improving.”
This time she did smile, though faintly.
His eyes rested on her with quiet attention. “And you? Are you hiding from acquaintance as well?”
Aurelia lowered her gaze to the books before her. “Something of the kind.”
He did not answer at once. She could feel him decide not to press her, and that restraint, so unexpected, made something in her chest loosen with painful gratitude.
“I have found books more discreet than people,” he admitted.
“That depends upon the book.”
“True. Some are shamelessly indiscreet.”
She glanced at him, hiding her amusement. “You speak as if you have been ill-used by literature.”
“By several histories, certainly. They have a habit of making disaster appear orderly after the fact.”
Aurelia’s fingers paused on the spine of another volume.
“That is because the dead cannot object to the arrangement.”
He looked at her then, more closely. She regretted the words almost as soon as they were spoken. They had come from some place still raw from Lady Renwick’s drawing room, from Langley’s smooth warning, from her mother’s pale endurance across years of being misremembered by others.
But he did not laugh. He did not offer one of those easy remarks with which gentlemen dismissed seriousness when it inconvenienced them.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “They cannot.”
Aurelia swallowed. Suddenly, the shop around them seemed very far away. Then, he reached past her, carefully keeping enough distance that no impropriety could be imagined, and drew a volume from the shelf above her shoulder.
“If you are looking for older notices,” he told her, “you may have better luck with the bound newspapers. They keep them below the counter, not here.”
Aurelia stilled. “Do they?”
“I asked last week.”
“About notices?”
“Dispatches,” he clarified. “Casualty lists.”
She turned to him fully.
There was nothing theatrical in his expression, no invitation to pity. If anything, he looked as though he had not meant to say so much.
He held the volume out, though she had not asked for it. “This will be less useful than you hope.”
Aurelia accepted it. Their gloved fingers did not touch, yet the near contact seemed to register all the same.
“You do not know what I hope.”
“No,” he nodded. “But I know the look of someone searching for a thing they are not certain still exists.”
She could not answer him. The bell above the door sounded again. Voices entered with the damp air, bright and careless, and the spell of the narrow aisle broke.
Aurelia closed the book without having opened it. “I should return.”
“Of course.”
He stepped back to allow her passage. She moved past him, then stopped before she could prevent herself.
“My lord.”
He looked at her.
“Thank you.”
“For the book?”
“For not asking,” she revealed.
Something in his face changed, not enough to be called softness, but near enough to make her wish she had not noticed it.
“Then I shall continue not asking,” he promised.
Aurelia inclined her head and turned toward the front of the shop.
At the counter, Mr. Bronson was producing a stack of old newspapers for another customer. She saw them, marked the place in her mind, and knew she would return.
As she stepped back into the street, London seemed no kinder than before. The carriages still rattled, the faces still passed, the sky still held its rain in sullen reserve.
Yet for the first time that day, Aurelia felt a little less alone.
***
The ball at Lady Fenton’s house, an elegant residence in Grosvenor Square, had everything arranged with such taste that comfort seemed almost an afterthought.
The chandeliers glittered above the assembly like frozen fountains of light, while the mirrors doubled every candle, every jewel, every guarded smile.
Clara was in white, with the pale-yellow ribbon finally chosen after one change of mind.
She looked very young and very happy. Harrow had claimed her for the first dance with perfect correctness, and though Clara later danced with other gentlemen, her affection was evident.
With others she was pretty, agreeable, and attentive. With him, she was illuminated.
Right now, Clara was dancing with a Mr. Vale, a young man of good family and tolerable manners. Clara smiled when necessary, answered when addressed, and moved through the steps with grace, but her gaze drifted toward Captain Harrow, who stood across the room speaking with Lord Westbridge.
Aurelia tried not to look for him too often that evening.
He was standing near one of the tall doorways, with his dark coat severe among the brighter fashions.
Once, across the room, their eyes had met.
He bowed slightly, and she inclined her head.
The exchange, occupying less than two seconds, had warmed her more than the overheated room.
This was becoming dangerous.
She excused herself from Mrs. Anstruther and made her way through the edge of the crowd, avoiding a cluster of young ladies who had lowered their voices at her approach with insufficient speed to disguise that she had been their subject. Such things no longer surprised her.
The passage beyond the ballroom was cooler and less brightly lit. Aurelia moved toward the small conservatory she had noticed earlier, where potted orange trees and damp earth promised relief from perfume and scrutiny.
She had taken only three steps inside when a man’s voice called out to her. “Miss Finch.”
She stopped. General Langley stood between her and the farther door.
For one absurd instant, Aurelia thought of retreating without reply.
But to turn and hurry away would be to confess fear, and if there was one thing her mother’s history had taught her, it was that men like General Langley fed upon fear as surely as society fed upon scandal.
She inclined her head. “General Langley.”
The conservatory was dimmer than the passage, lit by only two lamps whose light caught upon the glossy leaves and left the corners shadowed. The air was moist and close, smelling of soil, greenery, and the faint bitter scent of orange blossom.
“I had hoped for a word with you,” he said.
“How fortunate for you that hope has been so swiftly gratified.”
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, while his decorated breast was supposed to be giving him the appearance of public honor. Yet his gaze was devoid of honor’s warmth. It was sharp, assessing, and coldly certain of its own right to judge.
“You have your mother’s tongue.”
“I have been told I have my father’s eyes. It is pleasing to learn both parents contributed something.”
“Pride also, I think.”
“That, General, may be my own.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
“You have been asking questions,” he said.
Aurelia felt the first true movement of fear then, not because the words were unexpected, but because they were not. She had known, in some chamber of her mind where dread sat patiently awaiting confirmation, that Charlotte’s interest had not been idle.
“I have been conversing with acquaintances of my family,” she replied. “London society generally considers conversation one of its safer amusements.”
“Do not be clever with me, Miss Finch.”
“I was not aware cleverness required your permission.”
He stepped a little nearer. Aurelia did not move back, though every instinct urged it.
“My daughter tells me you have shown a renewed interest in old matters.”
“Your daughter shows a renewed interest in many things that do not concern her.”
He frowned. “Matters touching upon the honor of the army concern every loyal family in England.”
“And matters touching upon the ruin of one’s mother may be permitted to concern a daughter.”
There it was. The line had been crossed, though by which of them she could not have said. The civility that society laid like varnish over uglier substances had cracked, and beneath it something dark looked out.
“Your mother,” he warned, “was a foolish woman who mistook agitation for principle and paid for the error.”
Aurelia’s throat tightened, but her voice, when it came, was steady.
“My mother was a truthful woman who refused to be frightened into falsehood.”
“Truth,” he spoke with a contemptuous softness, “is a word much loved by those who do not understand consequence.”
“No, General. It is feared by those who do.”
The mask of stern respectability thinned, and Aurelia saw, with a coldness that passed through her whole body, that he hated her, because she was her mother’s daughter, because she bore a name he had helped bury, and had presumed to return with it unashamed.
“You would do well,” he said, “to remember what became of Lady Finch.”
“I remember it every day.”
“Then profit by the recollection. Your mother had friends once. You see how little it availed her in the end.”
The words entered her like a draft under a door.
“You threaten me very openly, sir.”
“I advise you very plainly. There is a difference. A young lady in your position cannot afford renewed scandal, nor can those attached to her.” His glance moved briefly toward the ballroom.
“Miss Blackmore appears to be enjoying some success. It would be unfortunate if her prospects suffered from the imprudence of her cousin.”
Aurelia’s fear sharpened into anger. “You will leave my cousin out of this.”
“Then leave the past where it belongs.”
“The past has not remained there by my choosing.”
“No. It remained there because wiser heads understood the necessity of silence.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Some matters are best left undisturbed, Miss Finch.”
The words were quietly spoken, yet they seemed to fill the conservatory.
“I thank you for your concern,” she said. “But I have never found that men who destroy reputations are the best guardians of prudence.”
For one second, she thought he might seize her arm. He did not. He was too clever for that, and too near a ballroom full of witnesses. But the violence in his stillness was almost worse. Then, with a bow so slight it could hardly be called one, he stepped aside.
“Enjoy the ball, Miss Finch.”
Aurelia walked past him. She did not hurry.
Pride carried her through the conservatory, along the passage, and back toward the music.
She even paused at the ballroom door before entering, as though she had merely returned from taking air and not from having the past breathe its warning into her face.
Only when she had found a quiet corner behind a screen of palms did she realize that her hands were shaking.
Across the room, Clara was laughing at something Captain Harrow had said.
Owen was standing beside them, with his attention upon his friend, until some instinct made him look up. His gaze found Aurelia at once.
He began to come toward her, but she gave the smallest shake of her head.
Not here.
Owen stopped. His expression changed only slightly, but she saw that he understood. She vowed to write him that night, to tell him everything her calm demeanor concealed and every fear pride refused to show.